Blind man in a tea garden

Photo by Rikonavt on Pexels.com

Her voice was low and kindly yet discreet
Describing all the summer flowers,ah sweet
William,poppy,rosemary, striped bees
A little play we heard when drinking tea

His face was gentle, did not seem aggrieved
He could not see and yet he looked well pleased
Her voice caressed him tenderly and strong
I hoped that she would burst into a song

Loving touch can come from hands or voice
We are not taught such differences or choice
Indeed with teachers stern and parents rough
We may experience touch as cruel and tough

Let our voices do no harm nor hurt
Hell is made of lovers now turned curt


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